


Freddy

by ficthepainaway



Series: Freddy [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficthepainaway/pseuds/ficthepainaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergeant Frederick Abberline is a strange, hairy little man with terrible disguises and even more terrible jokes. And damn it all, Jacob adores him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Everyone is in place, Sergeant."

Abberline stepped from the carriage to the muddy stones of the alley, straightening his tie. "Then let's begin."

He stood back as his men breached the doors of the factory, Constable Burke barking, "Metropolitan Police! This is a raid!" Officers filed inside. "You have—er—" Burke trailed off, and beyond him his fellow officers' invasion slowed, then stopped. "What the hell?"

Over their heads, Abberline could see the problem. A mess of dead Blighters framing their equally dead foreman, inventively hanged from the gangway by his own scarf. And past them—milling about on the far side of the vast factory—workers, Rooks, and a solitary figure in black.

Abberline sighed. And because that didn't feel like quite enough, he sighed a second time. "Burke, Hodges, you stay here and take care of the bodies. The rest of you can go back to Scotland Yard." He dug his pipe out of his pocket, knowing he'd need a soother to get through the rest. "I'll talk to the Rooks about how to use legal channels to deliver justice."

As he crossed the factory floor, the Rooks finally took notice of police presence and started to stir, murmuring to each other and to their boss. For his part, Jacob Frye seemed unconcerned by the police's arrival at a murder scene he'd coordinated. He was crouched in front of a young girl—no doubt one of the child laborers Abberline's men had come here to free after weeks of evidence-building. They were playing a clapping game, Jacob's big hands meeting her small ones gently.

"Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,  
Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old."

Jacob matched her clap for clap, word for word. He wore a smile the whole time, but it looked far less wicked and far sweeter than what Abberline was used to.

"Some like it hot, some like it cold,  
Some like it in the pot, nine days old."

Looking down at them, Abberline cleared his throat and said, "Frye."

Jacob spared a split-second glance up at Abberline before catching the girl's hands and whispering something to her that made her giggle and trot away. Abberline was about to ask what he'd said when Jacob stood up—fluid, abrupt, and far too close. He could practically—no, he could definitely smell him. Leather and gunpowder and sweat.

"I like it hot, personally," Jacob said, smile gone from kind back to wicked.

Abberline gulped. "Come again?"

"Pease porridge. And porridge generically," Jacob supplied, tilting his head. "Do you think anyone likes it nine days old, or is impossibility the consequence of children making up rhymes?"

"Frye," Abberline began again. He took a step backward, where the man's hypnotic powers weren't quite so potent. "Care to explain what happened here?"

Together, Jacob and Abberline looked back across the factory. And right on cue, Hodges lost his grip on the foreman's body and dropped it on directly on top of Burke. Burke yelped, Hodges called, "Sorry!" and Abberline took a stabilizing breath.

"We liberated a factory," Jacob said, plain.

"You murdered a bunch of men."

"Oh, a couple of women too," Jacob pointed out.

Abberline pinched the bridge of his nose. "For God's sakes, Frye…"

"What? They weren't innocent…"

"Innocence," Abberline interrupted loudly, "is to be determined by the justice system. Not by you and your bloody gang!"

Jacob crossed his arms with an incredulous scoff, like he'd never heard anything so ludicrous. "These people were running their factory on the backs of children!"

"And we were here to arrest them!" Abberline replied.

Jacob lowered his eyes, and for a foolish moment Abberline thought he'd finally led him to reason. Then, shaking his head, Jacob murmured, "It's not enough."

"Come again?"

"These bastards," he said with a sweeping motion at the factory, "would never land in prison, and you know it. Besides, this goes higher than either of us can reach. Dismantling production is the only way to get results in time to save more kids from this life."

Jacob waved off his men who, unnoticed by Abberline, had begun looming protectively on the edge of their conversation as its volume increased. They went, and Jacob advanced back into Abberline's space. The man's clever gaze was difficult to hold at any distance, but this close? It was like staring at a bloody eclipse.

"We have an arrangement through Greenie," Jacob reminded him softly. "We provide you bounties, and you look the other way while we conduct our business. I'm happy to negotiate with you on most aspects of the deal, just—not this."

Jacob had dipped his head to try and follow Abberline's gaze, and giving up on that, he reached forward and tipped up Abberline's chin. Warmth spread from Jacob's fingertips over Abberline's face, then through the rest of him. Knitting his brows, Jacob said, "Please?"

"Yes," Abberline said, slapping Jacob's hand away. "Fine."

And just like that, the look of earnest concern melted from Jacob's face and was replaced by his usual setting: smugness. "Attaboy, Abberline!" He started for the door. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you!"

The workers had gone, and the remaining Rooks closed ranks behind Jacob, hiding him from view as they strode off into the night. Abberline watched them go, touching his chin where Jacob had, curious.


	2. Chapter 2

Tucked in a corner by a wall peppered with flyers, Abberline did his best to look like he was watching the fight and not watching the bookie.

Robert Topping ran an intricate network of underground sport and illegal gambling. Scotland Yard knew it—everyone knew it, his outfit practically screamed "rob me, I'm a bookie"—but no one could catch him. He'd been arrested a dozen times, sure, but police had never been able to track down the key piece of evidence to keep him locked up: the money. Rumor had it he used arcane magic to turn it invisible.

Abberline resolved to crack the case. Tonight.

Then a hand gripped his shoulder and warm lips met his ear with a whispered: "Good evening, Sergeant Abberline."

Jacob Frye slid into view, blocking Abberline's sightline on Topping with an expanse of bare skin.

Abberline was not going to crack the case tonight.

"Fantastic disguise," Jacob continued with a wink. "Chimney sweep chic. I like it."

Abberline tried to point his gaze at anything that wasn't Jacob Frye's chest and stomach, but they were always there in the corner of his eye, pale and chiseled and perfect. So he settled on squeezing his eyes shut and willing the man away.

"I'm flattered you came to watch me fight," Jacob continued breezily, as though Abberline wasn't having a visible fit of anxiety. "I've been practicing. I think I'm _pret_ -ty okay."

"I didn't come to watch you, Frye. I came to monitor illegal activity," Abberline replied. And through his teeth, he added, "In secret."

"But on the night I'm fighting," Jacob pointed out. "Coincidence?"

"One hundred percent."

"Hmm." Abberline could practically hear Jacob's smile. "Either way. Freddy—can I call you Freddy?"

"No."

"Freddy, last I checked there was nothing illegal about consenting adults beating each other bloody. You may be wasting your time."

Certain that Jacob was being sly, but lacking a rejoinder to draw on, Abberline clarified: "I came to investigate the gambling. Not the fisticuffs."

Jacob fell silent. Abberline cracked an eye open and there it was, the impish smile.

"But on the night _I'm_ fighting," Jacob repeated, tilting his head.

"Please leave."

Jacob did as he was told, patting Abberline on the arm before sauntering down to the ring.

Abberline watched Topping at the ringside. He watched Topping's men at the blackboard in the back, meeting with betters and tucking their cash and coin away. But once the fight began, Abberline mostly watched Jacob.

Topping forwent one-on-one matches and sent brutes at Jacob in groups of two, three, five—and no one could land a hit. Abberline knew that Henry Green and his associates had considerable skill. But this? This was impossible. Jacob simultaneously defied gravity and used it to its most destructive end, kicking fighters' legs out from beneath them, crushing their jaws against his knee, jumping on their backs and slamming their foreheads against the ground. Between rounds, while Topping's men dragged unconscious bodies from the ring, Jacob paced back and forth, eyeing the next batch of fighters like a predator.

Eventually the sound of the crowd's furor rose high enough to drown out the trains passing through Whitechapel Station. The gamblers were none too pleased about losing their bets against the unknown newcomer. The other spectators, meanwhile, were devoted new converts to the Church of Jacob Frye. It was chaos. Abberline couldn't monitor the gambling operation if he wanted to. (At least that's what he told himself.)

And then, because the sight of Jacob Frye moving like a deadly dancer wasn't confusing and arousing enough on its own, it started to rain.

Jacob carried on distributing bruises and broken bones, only now he was soaked. His hair stuck to his face. Mud crept up and up until he was covered in it. His muscles shone in the lamplight, each ripple magnified to new frustrating levels.

It was awful—and wonderful. And after eight awful, wonderful rounds, it was over. Topping joined Jacob in the ring, lifting his arm high. Jacob slicked his hair back with his free hand then turned his head and looked straight at Abberline. The assassin smiled, radiant.

And, damn it all, Abberline smiled back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoilers for Charles Dickens memory "Hell's Bells."

Jacob never thought he'd end up behind bars. Not because of his strict adherence to the law, obviously, but because he'd never planned on being caught. Yet here he was in Scotland Yard, without the foggiest idea what happened between agreeing to investigate Dickens' demon robbery nonsense and landing in here.

Through bad posture, he took up an entire bench. Through intimidation, he took up an entire half of the cell. Huddled on the bench across the way were three Blighters, silent and sullen, casting furtive glances his way. It was good to be king.

Jacob noticed the guard on duty shifting his stance, and a second later Abberline walked in. He dismissed the policeman and dragged a chair away from the nearby desk to sit facing Jacob.

"Freddy!" Jacob breathed, sounding about as relieved as he felt. "Good timing. I was just going to make my escape, but I didn't want these blokes to follow me out." He leaned his head against the bars and added in a hush, _"I think they're criminals."_

Abberline didn't acknowledge this, instead saying, "Constable Rhydderch mentioned there was a strange man in holding who had surrendered an inordinate amount of exotic weaponry." His tone implied a direct quote. "So I figured I would come up and say hello."

God he was cute when he thought he was being clever. The sideways smile, the lingering glance to see if Jacob got the joke. It was as though Abberline had spent his entire life making jokes no one laughed at.

Oh. And now Jacob was sad.

"Are you here to let me out, Freddy?"

"I am not," Abberline replied. He lowered his voice and bent close to Jacob's face. "In fact, I like having you in my control for once."

Jacob flexed his fingers around the bars of the cell. "Naughty," he cooed, smirking. "I like this version of you, Freddy."

If Abberline was frazzled—which he likely was, knowing him—he didn't show it. Instead he straightened and pressed on. "Rhydderch said you turned yourself in?"

Jacob shrugged. "I honestly do not remember," he said.

"For robbery?" Abberline tried, searching Jacob's face for a clue.

"News to me," Jacob replied.

One of the Blighters in the cell chose that moment to speak up, divulging, "'E also did a funny li'l jig." He recreated it as well as he could from his sitting position, making his fellows laugh. "Flappin' 'is arms and stompin' 'is feet like a chicken."

"Shut up!" Jacob snapped on top of Abberline's, "You were not invited to this conversation!"

As the thugs' chortling died down, Abberline looked back at Jacob seriously and said, "You did dance a little jig, though." Jacob groaned. "Apparently you did it all through the booking process, making it extra difficult to remove the weapons from your person."

Jacob shut his eyes, willing this all to be a dream. And if it was a dream, to switch over to a sexy dream. Maybe one with Jacob chained, kneeling. Abberline saying, _You can't sass me with my cock in your mouth, inmate._ But probably in a smarter more proper way, like, _You'll no longer be impertinent with me while_ …what's a nice way to discuss face fucking?

"Jacob."

Jacob snapped back to reality. Reluctant to let the fantasy go, he reached through the bars of the cell and walked two fingers up Abberline's knee. "You know I'll get out of here eventually," Jacob purred. "Is there nothing I can do to make it happen a little faster?"

Jacob expected Abberline to choke, to slap his hand away or go flying out of his chair. Instead, Abberline considered the fingers as they strayed toward his inner thigh, and his lack of panic made Jacob feel, well, a little panicked. The moment stretched on, skirting the line between 'too far' and 'so crazy it might work'—until Dickens walked in.

"Well, Mister Frye," he said, announcing his arrival with all the brightness of a clarion, "let's get you out of here." Jacob yanked his arm back through the bars and Abberline clambered out of the chair. Continuing like he didn't notice a thing, Dickens explained, "I've pulled a few strings and they won't prosecute on the account of you losing your mind."

'Losing his mind' is right. Jacob just felt up a policeman. At the police station, in front of a bunch of members of a rival gang. Even a do-as-you-please lad like himself knew when to stop: like when a little flirting might get your friend at the Metropolitan Police convicted of gross indecency.

He imagined Freddy doing hard labor, his pitiful little face covered in soot. It was terrible.

Dickens turned to Abberline, who drew a ring of keys from his jacket pocket. "Sergeant Abberline, thank you again for your help with this," Dickens said.

"You know you can call on me any time, Mister Dickens."

Jacob looked between Dickens, who was rocking on the balls of his feet and looking around the room, and Abberline, who was busy finding the right key. "You knew I was being released?" Jacob hissed. Abberline smiled, not meeting his eyes. "Tricky, tricky Freddy."

Abberline found the right key. "It's Sergeant Abberline," he reminded, opening the door and standing aside, "And we've endured enough of your foul behavior for one afternoon," he finished theatrically.

The cop behind the front desk gave back all his weapons, and Jacob was climbing onto a carriage with Dickens before he got it. _"Fowl_ behavior," he murmured, taking up the reins. "That's atrocious."


	4. Chapter 4

Jacob strolled into the Thistle and Crown, and every head in the pub swiveled to look at him. He didn't blame them; the people of central London rarely saw members of the criminal class in their pubs, especially not ones so handsome.

By the time Jacob got his gin, everyone had gone back to their conversations—with the exception of one man near the end of the bar, who was watching him anxiously. Jacob made his way over.

"Is this seat taken?"

Abberline downed the rest of his beer in one, set down his tankard, and motioned to the bartender for another before conceding, "No."

Jacob swung onto the stool, subtly moving it closer to his target as he did so. "If I'm being honest, I pinned you as a temperance movement sort of chap," Jacob said, watching with a little awe as Abberline received his next tankard and took an extravagant swig. "You surprise me, Freddy."

Abberline smirked—or maybe that was just the light—and asked, "What brings you to these parts, Jacob?"

"Business," Jacob replied, which wasn't untrue if you were in the business of killing Templars and assuming control of their hideouts. "What about you? Why here and not—what's that place by the station called? The Fancy Prick?"

"The _Gallant Commodore_ ," Abberline groaned.

"That's the one," Jacob said, smiling into his gin. He liked seeing Abberline in annoyed agony, not to mention how easy it was to get him there.

"Business," Abberline echoed. He toyed with his beer, eyes flickering toward Jacob before he added, "Besides, I don't like that pub."

"Why not? It's always crawling with coppers. Seems like it'd be your kind of place."

Jacob meant that genuinely, but Abberline's answering scoff suggested he'd said something outlandish. "There's a reason I work alone," Abberline said.

"…Because you're a terrific cop on the rise and the rest of them are green with envy?" Jacob ventured.

Abberline laughed, and it was bitter enough to bottle. "No, most of the others dislike me," he explained. "That's all."

Shit, of course other cops didn't like Abberline. He was too odd, too smart, too superb a person to fit in with those mutton shunters. In general, Jacob didn't harbor bad feelings for the police—they were more of an annoyance than anything. But the fact that they didn't hold Abberline in as high of regard as he did made that annoyance fester. In fact, if he ever found out that Abberline's fellow cops made fun of him, Jacob would probably go on a murder spree. No one gets to tease Freddy. …Except for Jacob.

"Well," Jacob said, "if it's any consolation, I wouldn't want to spend time with a cop who gets along with other cops." Abberline smiled, and it wasn't a trick of the light this time. "Now, I think we should get shamefully drunk. What say you?"

Abberline looked sideways at Jacob's half-gone gin, then up at Jacob. "I'd say you have some catching up to do."  
 

* * *

  
Some time later (he'd lost track of the minutes, the hours), Jacob was hot all over from drinking, from laughing, and from where Abberline's knee touched his under the bar. Abberline was feeling it too, based on how he'd loosened his tie and undone the first few buttons of his shirt.

They'd just paid for another round of drinks when Abberline reached over and tapped a finger on the Assassin insignia on Jacob's bracer. "What's this?"

Jacob was surprised Abberline didn't know that already, though he supposed Henry had kept as much about the order from him as he could. "It's an emblem associated with my, er, people."

"Really," Abberline said, his tone even but his expression hinting at a smile.

Jacob looked closer at the insignia, failing to see what was funny about it. "Yes, really," he replied. "Why?"

"Because it looks a bit like—" Abberline made a little triangle with his fingers. Seeing how that failed to get his point across, he said, "Because it looks like a cunt."

Jacob spit beer all over the bar—like, really spit more than he'd've guessed was in his mouth. He stared down at the insignia and, yep, there it was. "Oh God," Jacob said. "Oh God, you're right."

He grabbed Abberline by the back of the neck and tipped their foreheads together. "Sergeant Frederick Abberline, today you have given me an incredible gift," he declared. Cracking up, Abberline laid one hand on Jacob's shoulder, closing the circle. "Because from this day forward, I will always see a cunt when I look at that thing."

They stayed like that for a moment, Jacob looking through lowered lashes at Abberline and riding the warmth of too much booze and Abberline's dopey, easy smile.

Apparently, it was a moment too long. Two stools away, one of the few other lowlifes in the pub took notice. "Oi! What the fuck are you doing? We've got a couple of filthy _Marys_ over h—"

And then, the man slumped to the floor.

…Because Abberline had spun around and slammed his head against the bar. Hard.

Abberline looked from the man on the floor to Jacob, his expression of pure horror matched in intensity by Jacob's look of total fucking shock. Then a lot of things happened at once.

The bartender yelled something about the police. The patrons—those idiot toffs—started screaming and fleeing. The two blokes who had been drinking with the thug came at Abberline. Jacob took the first one out with a few punches while Abberline incapacitated the second with a knee to the groin.

Over the shouts of _"help, police!"_ and the oncoming sound of whistles and hooves, Jacob looked at Abberline and said, "We need to run."

They bolted out of the Thistle and Crown and up the street. It sounded like police were coming from every direction—which was a distinct possibility. Unlike when you get in a brawl in Devil's Acre, police actually patrolled the City of London.

Jacob looked around for possibilities and spotted one, standing tall and magnificent nearby. Sure, if he'd thought more about it he would have come up with a safer escape option, but ever since Aleck gave him that rope launcher, Jacob had been kind of hoping for a situation like this.

"This way!" Jacob grabbed Abberline's wrist and led him toward St. Paul's. When they were within throwing (well, grappling) distance of the west front of the cathedral, Jacob skidded to a halt and pulled Abberline in with his left arm. "Hold on tight. And don't scream."

Abberline obediently wrapped his arms around Jacob's neck. Then Jacob pointed at the nearest tower, and they were off.

It wasn't nearly as graceful with two people, but Jacob managed to kick them up to the little portico on one of the west front towers, high above the street. They landed hard, rolling a couple of times before coming to a stop. Then they waited, completely still, as the noise from the police coaches drew close and then passed.

Jacob breathed a sigh of relief, then assessed their current situation. He was flat on his back. Abberline was braced on one arm above him, thigh pressed between his.

_This is it,_ Jacob thought, looking up at Abberline, already flushed and breathless. This was when Jacob was meant to lean up and crush their mouths together, and Abberline would go all tense, then he'd melt, then—

Abberline rolled off him.

_Damn it._

"How did you do that?" Abberline asked.

Jacob sat up. "Rope launcher," he said, holding his wrist out above Abberline's face. "A gift from Alexander Graham Bell, Scotsman and smarty."

Abberline pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, "Do you think I killed that man?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Freddy," he chuckled. Abberline cast him an unpleasant look. Jacob backpedaled: "What I mean is no, you only knocked him out. And you did a good job on the other one too. I should bring you with me to all my bar fights."

"Don't joke," Abberline grumbled. And then, with a note of incredulity, "Are we on top of St. Paul's?"

"So many _questions_ ," Jacob chastised, standing up and offering Abberline a hand. "Come see for yourself."

Abberline stood with Jacob's assistance and followed him to the edge of the tower, staring out at St. Paul's perfect dome and the vast stretch of lamplights beyond. "And look," Jacob said, pointing down at the little black oval on the cathedral roof below, "there's your hat."

Abberline looked down, then swayed. "Whoa!" Jacob caught him around the middle and dragged him back a step. "All right, let's sit down."

Seated a few of feet from the edge, with no more unimpeded views of death drops, they were silent and still. After a long moment, Abberline said, "It's like it never ends." Jacob looked at him. "The city. You wouldn't know there was anything else in the world."

"As far as I'm concerned, there isn't. London is all I've ever wanted," Jacob told him. "And it's beautiful, especially from here."

"It is beautiful," Abberline admitted. "It just makes me feel trapped." He crossed his arms over his bent knees, looking claustrophobic or agoraphobic, Jacob wasn't sure which.

"Hey," Jacob said, inching closer. "You're on top of St. Paul's—London can barely reach you here. You're not trapped." He reached out and turned Abberline's face toward his, watching Abberline's eyes flicker toward his mouth. "You're free."

Jacob leaned in—slow, hesitating all the way—until he met Abberline's lips in a lavish kiss. They moved together, no rush, no hint of _more more more._ It was just kissing. It was just them, surrendering to a vulnerable moment; Jacob flicking his tongue against Abberline's lip, Abberline sighing and haltingly tucking his hand beneath Jacob's cloak, at the small of his back.

Jacob broke the kiss and drank in Abberline's shy smile, petting his hair a moment. He scooted over so they sat thigh-to-thigh. You know, for warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kudos and sweet comments, guys! I've been following you all on Tumblr, which is meant to be an extension of my affection and not a creepy, stalkery thing. 
> 
> More updates soon! Cheers.


	5. Chapter 5

Much as Abberline would like to see Jacob whenever possible, he knew that if he wanted to receive his bounties alive, Evie was the Frye twin for the job. She had a finer handle on concepts like stealth, discretion, driving with care…he could go on.

Evie arrived right on schedule, a spitting angry Maude Foster in tow.

"Good afternoon, Miss Frye," Abberline said, climbing down from his coach.

"Sergeant Abberline," Evie replied, bright and easy, like she wasn't wrestling with a criminal who was making one last attempt at escape. "It's wonderful to see you, as always."

With Evie's help, Abberline cuffed Miss Foster and shoved her into the carriage. He locked the door and Evie turned to leave (their interactions were usually quite short—Evie always had more work to see to). Acting fast, Abberline asked, "How is your brother?"

He hadn't seen Jacob since the night at St. Paul's. They'd let the alcohol wear off before scaling back down the towers, which had probably been a mistake. Abberline had clung desperately to the assassin as they made their descent, sorely missing his liquid courage. When they had finally made it to the ground, Jacob had twirled Abberline's hat between his fingers before putting it back on for him, grinning close in the pre-dawn light.

Reliving it had kept Abberline up at night. Not that he minded.

In the present, Evie turned back on one heel to look at him. "Well, you know Jacob," she said. "He lives his creed: fighting, fleeing, feeding, and fornicating. Last I checked he was doing too much of all four."

Becoming a master of disguise had a lot of prerequisites, including becoming a master of your facial expressions. Abberline thought he reacted to this news with perfect neutrality. Evie, it seemed, noticed something more. She pulled him away from the back of the coach, where Maude Foster glared at them through the bars.

"Sergeant." She paused. "Frederick. Look, I'm going to cause you a little pain now to save you a lot of pain later." Evie said this softly, as though lowering her volume might make the whole thing easier. "My brother has a long history of philandering his way into getting what he wants, whether that's money or favors or just another person in his bed. I know him—I've known him all his life—and I can tell you with perfect confidence that he's never loved anyone but himself.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant," Evie concluded before walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter: The obligatory misunderstanding. It's weird to know a trope, hate it, and then write it anyway. Eh.


	6. Chapter 6

Abberline didn't know how much longer he could play the part of Mister Dredge. He'd thrown out subtlety, at this point just wandering around the Royal Exchange straight out asking people if they'd ever been in the vault next door.

He was off his game. So much so that he didn't notice someone stalking him through the Exchange until they snuck up behind him and delivered a swift punch to his gut.

He only had a second to double over in pain before his attacker pinned his arm and dragged him straight back up, rumbling, "Keep your eyes ahead of you and walk."

"Come now," he responded huffily, posh as he could manage. "You are barking up the wrong tree, sir!"

"It's Dredge, right?" Oh. He knew that voice. "The less you fight, the sooner you'll be released. Eyes front."

He let himself be half-guided, half-shoved past the police guard and out of the Exchange before hissing, "Frye. Frye!" His captor wasn't listening. "Jacob! It's me! Sergeant Frederick Abberline."

Jacob dropped his arm immediately, and spun him by his shoulders to look him over. "Freddy!" Abberline smacked his hands away, and Jacob flinched. "Er. I'm sorry I punched you," Jacob said, for what was certainly the first time in his life. "But on the upside—" Jacob raised both hands to point at himself, "totally convinced by your disguise. 'Banker' is the fake role you were made for, Freddy."

" _Sergeant_ ," Abberline corrected through his teeth. "Undercover."

Jacob's eyebrows drew together. "All right," he replied, slow.

Abberline had spent days turning over Evie's words, going back and forth between believing her and hoping he'd hear from Jacob with some contradictory evidence. He'd thought back on all the times Jacob's touch or glance had misdirected him. The factory, the fighting ring—he couldn't pretend the man didn't have a pattern of flirting his way out of a tight spot. All the soft looks and wicked smiles directed at Abberline seemed to get Jacob something in the end. _But maybe I'm wrong,_ he'd thought. Maybe Jacob would try to see him again after the night spent drying out on the cathedral.

A few days went by, then a week, and no word from Jacob. No ' Want to do that again sometime?' No 'Let's meet tomorrow at Hyde Park.' So he'd decided Evie was right. It made Abberline feel sick. And, worse yet, foolish. In what world would someone like Jacob Frye want to spend their time with a someone like him anyway? He supposed he should be flattered that Jacob even felt Abberline was worth a kiss.

So now, with Jacob in front of him looking confused, Abberline weighed his options: carrying on with this dead-end case and seeing the Bank of England robbed (again), or withstanding a temporary working relationship with Jacob Frye. As much as he'd like to save his sanity—London had to come first.

"There's to be a robbery at the Bank of England," Abberline spilled. "I'm sure of it."

"Robbery?" Jacob replied. "It's a fortress."

"Mmm. The boys at the station thought I was joking." Like always, because they never thought Abberline knew what he was talking about. "Wouldn't be so funny if it was their life savings."

"Who's behind it?"

Freddy had been avoiding eye contact until this point, but that earned Jacob a glare. "That's confidential."

Jacob turned up the charm. "Oh come on, Freddy. I can help you! Imagine the headlines: 'Thieves Caught in the Act. Abberline Right All Along.'" He shot Abberline a coaxing look.

Abberline sighed. "Every fiscal quarter, a branch of the bank is robbed. Never the same branch. The thieves are supplied by…" ugh, Jacob was going to get a kick out of this, "Cockham Merchants."

Jacob smirked and leaned close. "Say 'cock' for me again."

"Just go," Abberline bit back.

"Jesus, fine!" Jacob said, backing away. "Thanks for the info, _Freddy_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Around the time real-life Abberline was reassigned to Whitechapel so he could head up the Ripper investigation, Chief Inspector Walter Dew described him as sounding and looking like a bank manager. So the fact that Sequence 6 was the only time in-game that Jacob didn't see through Abberline's disguise is a nice touch (or nice coincidence—probably the former, though).


	7. Chapter 7

"Three this time?" Henry said, surprised.

"Busy week for Scotland Yard," Abberline answered, spreading the three envelopes out with his fingers. "Well, busy week failing to get close to and arrest criminals," he amended.

"I'll deliver these to Evie tonight," Henry replied.

"Tonight?" Abberline repeated. "There's no rush. Besides it's quite late."

Henry stiffened. "Oh! Right. Of course. Tomorrow."

Abberline was debating seeking details just as the bell on the door rang and a cool air rushed in. "Greenie, I need your magic hands—oh." Jacob stopped in the doorway, looking at Abberline. He rode the swoop of elation that came with seeing Jacob's silhouette…followed by the swift plummet upon remembering that there was no love there. "I. Er."

"Jacob, the door," Henry chastised.

"Right," Jacob said, recovering. He pushed the door shut and came into the light, which is when Abberline noticed he was looking pretty beat up—a cut lip, a dark spot spreading from center-left on his eye socket. "My shoulder," Jacob said.

"I told you I wasn't doing that again," Henry replied, gathering up the bounties Abberline had laid out in front of him.

"Henry," Jacob pleaded, less teasing than before. "I already tried putting it back in myself, _and_ I looked for Miss Nightingale but had no luck."

"Why don't you go to a hospital?" Abberline interjected.

Without looking at him, Jacob replied, "Because those places are deathtraps!" Henry mouthed the words along with him, Abberline noticed.

"You punched me last time," Henry grumbled. "In the face."

"That was involuntary!" Jacob appealed. "Henry, please. I can't walk around with this."

Henry considered him,  palms flat against the shop counter, eyebrows knit. "Fine," he said. Jacob went for a celebratory arm pump, then stopped short with a gasp and wince. "If the sergeant agrees to restrain you."

The two assassins turned to look at him, Henry neutral, Jacob nervous. Abberline buckled with a nod.

Henry led them into a spartan backroom, a stark contrast from the warm and cluttered shop. Jacob limped straight toward the narrow bed centered on the wall, like this was routine. He shed his cloak, grimacing, before starting on the buttons of his waistcoat.

As the layers came off, Jacob's injured state became more and more apparent, but no cut or burgeoning bruise was as grisly than the obvious deformity on his right shoulder. Jacob sat and gazed at the floor.

Henry, who had been fiddling with something at a cabinet in the corner, came forward with a small cup and a bottle with skull and crossbones on the label. "Laudanum," he said, more to Abberline than to Jacob, as he handed the cup over. "Jacob doesn't sustain nearly as many injuries as he gives. When someone does get a good hit in, it tends to be a bit of a…production."

"Right," Jacob snorted. "When was the last time you dislocated your shoulder, Henry? Do tell." He shot down his laudanum and returned the cup.

Henry motioned for Jacob to lie back. He did, pointing his right arm straight out. "Sergeant," Henry said, "to Jacob's left side, if you would." Abberline moved to that side of the bed and gently, uncertainly laid one hand on Jacob's good shoulder, the other on his wrist. "Don't apply too much pressure. But be ready to."

Jacob looked up at Abberline with a hazy little smile, blinking slow. Apparently the laudanum was doing its job. Then, with one foot braced in Jacob's armpit and his hands closed tight around his wrist, Henry started to pull Jacob's bad arm. Jacob's dreamy look of fondness vanished. He squeezed his eyes shut and started taking hard, deep breaths through his nose, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

After a while, Jacob's good arm jerked upward. Abberline readied himself for a pop in the nose but got something quite different: Jacob's fingers twined in his. (Though this probably hurt just as badly as a punch would have—Jacob had Abberline in a deathgrip.)

It was probably only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity passed before Jacob's shoulder popped back into place. His clutch on Abberline's hand combined with his expression, the tension in his muscles, the little noises that slipped into his exhalations made Jacob's pain all too visceral. Abberline could practically feel it in his own shoulder. When Henry finished his work, Abberline let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Henry laid Jacob's arm across his stomach and smiled. "No punching, no cursing, and no screaming," Henry said, impressed. "Apparently having the sergeant around brings out the best in you, Jacob."

Jacob chuckled darkly and slid his hand free from Abberline's.

"I think I have something for a sling up front," Henry announced, standing. "Thanks for your help, Sergeant."

"Of course," Abberline said. Following Henry back toward the main shop, Abberline cast a look back at Jacob, who was lying motionless, eyes still shut. He wanted nothing more than to pamper him. To wash his cuts, cook his food, and curl up next to him and watch him heal. He hated himself for it.

Just as Abberline reached for the doorknob at the front of the shop, the door came flying open, bouncing back off the toe of his shoe. "Henry!" howled a small child, maybe seven years old, sliding through the rapidly-closing gap between door and jamb. "Mister Henry, Clara needs you."

"Silas, I really can't—"

"It's urgent!" the child, Silas, said. He cast Abberline a suspicious look.

Henry faltered, rocking a bit in place. "Sergeant," he said, contrite. "Can—I apologize—can you look in on Jacob? Get him a sling and either send him on his way or lock him in here, whatever his preference."

"I—er—I suppose I can."

"There are spare keys in the back," Henry said, "and some cloth under the counter that—"

"Mister Henry!" the child yelled impatiently.

"I'm coming," Henry barked, walking toward Silas. He patted Abberline's arm with a rushed _'thank you'_ as he passed. They shut the door and Abberline was alone, thinking he'd need a new way to get messages to Henry's shop in the future.

He rifled around under the counter and found the cloth Henry had mentioned—it was thick and velvety, like a segment of an old curtain—and headed toward the back room once more. Not much had changed except that Jacob was sitting up against the headboard wearing a lazy smile. "Freddy," he drawled.

"Henry had to leave," Abberline said shortly, stepping forward. "He instructed me to—" his eyes caught a glint of something Jacob was twirling in his fingers. A bottle. Abberline plucked it out of his hands and held it up to the gaslamp.

"Jacob."

"Mmm?"

"Did you drink the rest of this laudanum?"

Jacob's smile widened and he slurred, "That does sound like something I would do."

Abberline tightened his fist around the empty bottle and took a stabilizing breath. "Can you put your clothes back on so I can put your arm in a sling?"

"Yes, sir," Jacob said. He didn't move.

Abberline gave it a few seconds before saying, "Jacob, your clothes."

"I'm putting them on right now!" Jacob protested, doing nothing of the sort.

Abberline supposed he should be happy Jacob was even still talking. That much laudanum would immediately knock out a man twice Jacob's size. Abberline tossed the fabric for the sling aside and picked up Jacob's shirt. "Come here." Abberline sat on the bed and forced Jacob's arms though the sleeves—too rough, based on Jacob's answering squawk. So Abberline went slow on the buttons, aggressively not thinking about the fine hairs on Jacob's abdomen or the rise and fall of his chest with every breath.

Abberline helped him into his waistcoat, gentle, buttoning that too. He spotted Jacob's tie, picked it up, and drew it over his head. He tucked it in and left it loose, knowing Jacob liked it that way. Jacob was watching him with that same misty, indulgent look from before—like Abberline was a kitten taking its first steps or a newborn sleeping in its mother's arms.

"Now your sling," Abberline said as he laid the cloth over Jacob's good shoulder. He folded it over Jacob's bent arm and tied two corners of the cloth together behind his neck, careful not to catch his hair in it. "Good?"

"You used to like me," Jacob mumbled.

Abberline froze. "I still like you," he replied evenly, checking the angle of Jacob's arm to see if he should tighten or loosen the sling.

"No you don't," Jacob said. "You don't. I still like you though. I like you…the most."

Abberline leaned back to get Jacob's cloak from the foot of the bed. Jacob leaned with him, pivoted, and laid his head on Abberline's lap.

"Jacob," Abberline grumbled, trying to slide away.

"Quit," Jacob said, planting a hand on Abberline's thigh and repositioning himself into a semblance of comfort—one bent knee against the headboard, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed. "Just…just…" he trailed off.

"Jacob." Nothing. "Jacob?"

Abberline brushed Jacob's hair out of his face and saw that his eyes were closed, mouth slack—laudanum finally winning out. Abberline traced his thumb over the scar above Jacob's eye, then down his cheek. Realizing what he was doing, he jerked backward faster than if he'd touched a hot stove. The weight of Jacob's head in his lap, his hand still resting palm-down on his thigh—it was wonderful. It was how he wanted to end every night. And it hurt.

Abberline slipped a palm under Jacob's head and carefully moved away before laying his head back down. Jacob didn't so much as snuffle. Abberline draped his cloak over his body like a blanket.

Doubting Jacob would know what hit him once he woke—literally or figuratively—Abberline found a pencil and paper. He closely examined Henry's ledger and in a rushed but passable forgery wrote:

_Put your shoulder back in place, then you drank a whole bottle of laudanum. Wear your sling for a few days please._

Hopefully Jacob would be too groggy when he woke to look too closely at the note. Abberline left it on the bedside table, found the keys Henry had referred to, and made his exit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Sequence 7: Unbreaking the Bank.

"Your paper, Jacob," said a Rook who Evie only sort of recognized, following Jacob into the train car with newspaper in hand.

"Thank you, Nellie." 

Evie had questioned Jacob the first few times he'd shown up on the train with a newspaper—he'd never kept up with current events in his life—until she realized what he was doing: looking for news coverage of his and the Rooks' bad deeds. In the end, she decided she was just glad he was reading.

Jacob plopped down in his favorite spot on the chaise lounge, sprawling far wider than strictly necessary, and unfolded the paper. Nellie laid her palm on the armrest and leaned close to Jacob. For as bold as her stance was, her voice was a little timid when she said, "A few of us were thinking of meeting at the One Tun Pub later, if you'd want to join."

"I'll consider it," Jacob replied, not looking up from the newspaper. When Nellie didn't move, he spared her a glance and dismissed her with, "Thanks again, Nell."

The Rook walked out, leaving Jacob and Evie alone—Jacob reading the front page and mouthing along, Evie drinking tea. After a while, Evie said, "I saw Sergeant Abberline the other day."

Jacob grunted. "Still hairy?" he asked.

Evie smiled against the edge of her cup. "Without fail. He asked after you," she continued, taking a sip then setting the tea aside. "You're not…leading him on, are you?"

Jacob opened the next page of his newspaper. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, cool but a little quick. "Why would you think that?"

"Well," Evie leaned forward. "First of all, the sergeant never asks about you. He never says much of anything besides hello and goodbye. And secondly, when he did ask about you he had this look on his face like he was a puppy waiting for scraps."

Jacob scoffed, shifted the newspaper to better block his profile from view. "Well, what did you tell him? That I'm keeping my nose clean and absolutely not engaging in criminal activity, I hope?"

"Actually," Evie began, prim, "I told him to be wary. Because my brother is a wanton flirt who has no qualms about manipulating any fool who has romantic feelings for him."

Jacob crumpled his paper and snarled, "You did _what?"_

"Just trying to save him the heartbreak," Evie said.

Jacob looked off into the middle distance, eyes wide. "Christ, no wonder he was so cross with me during all the bank stuff," he muttered. His gaze snapped back to Evie and he exclaimed, "This is your doing!"

Evie rolled her eyes. "I don't know what kind of scheme you're running on him, Jacob," she intoned, "but the sergeant is a good man."

"I know that!" Jacob tossed his newspaper aside and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Damn it, Evie."

Evie blinked.

Their father had always said to never allow personal feelings to compromise the mission. At first, Evie believed that just meant _their_ feelings—Evie's and Jacob's. But eventually she learned that the street went two ways, that an outsider's affection for her or for Jacob were equally problematic. Jacob's flings had lost them valuable partnerships; had blown their stealth operations; and, on one memorable occasion, had gotten them robbed. After that, Evie had begun to nip Jacob's conquests in the bud when she spotted them. She'd probably even foiled some plans that were never there in the first place.

If and when she reported back, Jacob usually shrugged and moved on. So this was…unusual.

"Jacob," Evie ventured cautiously, "do you fancy Sergeant Abberline?"

"No," Jacob said mulishly, response muffled by his hands.

"Oh dear." Evie felt something twist in her stomach. "Oh dear, you do fancy him."

Jacob dropped his hands and glared. "No, I don't," he snapped. He stood abruptly and started for the door. "Just—mind your own business, Evie. Shit."

Jacob left Evie looking around the empty train car in shock. She hadn't lied when she told Abberline that Jacob only loved himself. No one had held his attention for longer than a few weeks since he was, what, fourteen years old? Once he'd had his fill of one person, Jacob turned to the next man or woman making eyes at him, or the next person who might succumb to his powers of persuasion.

 _Like just now with that Rook,_ Evie thought, _when Jacob…had not paid her any mind._

Damn.

Evie snatched up the newspaper he'd left behind to see if she could find out what "bank stuff" he might've been talking about. It didn't take long. Splashed across the front page was CAPITAL MURDER AT THE BANK OF ENGLAND: SCOTLAND YARD SAYS 'NO NEW LEADS.' She went to grab her gear.  
  


* * *

  
Evie figured she'd find Abberline at the Bank of England, but the riotous crowd was a bit of a surprise. The throng in front of the bank was enormous. It was easy to track down Abberline, thankfully, on account of him radiating the most nervous energy.

For some five minutes he'd been ranting to her about Jacob, counterfeiters, the economy, more Jacob, and the demise of Britain as a whole. 

"The counterfeit money is being spent nearby," Abberline said, stalking forward at an impressive pace. "With those printing plates, it's nearly impossible to tell the fake notes from the real ones."

"Mister Abberline," she said, trying to butt in for what felt like the hundredth time.

"When this gets out…well, I've said it already. When people don't trust their currency…and we're already seeing riots…"

"Mister Abberline!"

He turned to look at her, slowing his gait. "Yes, Miss Frye."

"I assure you I can accomplish what you've asked, but I need to finish my first mission before I can," Evie explained. Abberline's eyebrows disappeared beneath the shadow of his brim. "I think I was wrong. About Jacob. About his feelings for you."

Abberline didn't look like he was ready to add a new layer of stress to his day, but Evie pressed on. "I told him, just now, I told him what I'd said to you and he"—how could she put this delicately?—"came a tad unhinged."

Abberline narrowed his eyes and asked, "Should I be worried?"

"No! Well," she laughed, "maybe. Being the object of Jacob Frye's affection does sound like a scary prospect, now that I think about it. Anyway." Evie clasped her hands behind her back, straightening. "It's clear to me now that Jacob values his friendship with you. And I knew that he would have a hard time convincing you of that after the things I'd said. If I could take them all back, I would."

Evie could see the wheels of Abberline's mind turning, everything slotting into place. On the way over, she had considered her father's advice, considered the damage that could be done by Jacob actually falling for someone. She knew that the reverse—when someone fell for Jacob and he tired of them—tended to turn out badly. It was a stretch, a big one, to think that a Jacob in love would do less damage than a Jacob unattached. But she wanted to see him happy. And, selfishly, she wanted to be able to make fun of _his_ goo-goo eyes for once.

"And now that I've cleaned up my mess, I'm going to go clean up Jacob's." Evie smiled, catching Abberline's eye. "I'll shut down this counterfeiting operation in no time."


	9. Chapter 9

"Jacob." A pause. "Boss."

"Rashmi, I'm busy," Jacob said, not looking at her.

"I can see that," Rashmi replied. This was pretty charitable of her, given that Jacob was busy staring at the wall, nothing more. Combined with brutally killing any Blighter that looked at him funny, this had been Jacob's primary pastime for the past couple of days. "But you should know: we caught some bloke snooping around the train at the last stop."

"And?" Jacob drawled.

"We were about to—er— _dispatch_ him, but then he asked for you. So we brought him on the train."

That got Jacob's attention. He lifted his hands in the universal sign of 'what the fuck?' and said, "You brought a strange man into our hideout?"

"To be fair, Jacob, there are a lot of strange men in our hideout." Jacob narrowed his eyes, unamused. "He's in the Rooks' carriage," Rashmi concluded, stepping out.

Jacob sighed and grabbed his kukri. He supposed some mixed torture and interrogation wasn't the worst way to close his evening. He hopped between cars until he was in the Rooks' hangout, empty and mostly dark. He ripped back the curtains hiding what on a normal train was the luggage compartment—and promptly dropped his blade.

_"Freddy,"_ he breathed, staring down at where the sergeant been bound to a chair and gagged, looking a little worse for wear. Jacob kneeled and eased the rag out of his mouth, resting his palms on either side of Abberline's face. Then he remembered Evie's words— _my brother is a wanton flirt who has no qualms about manipulating the fools who have romantic feelings for him_ —and dropped his hands, going to work instead on the ropes at his wrists. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," Abberline responded, sounding understandably surly.

Jacob loosened the bindings enough for Freddy to slip his hands free. They sat in silence for a moment, Abberline massaging his wrists, Jacob watching.

"Er." Jacob cleared his throat. "Do you want some…tea?"

Abberline considered it, then asked, "Do you have something stronger?"

Jacob smirked and led him to the next car, motioning to the chaise longue. Abberline sat while Jacob glanced through the bottles he'd gathered on top of the safe, ultimately pouring a gin for both of them. Abberline took his glass and Jacob sat with him on the sofa. They drank, not looking at each other.

"Jacob," Abberline said, finally, after far too many seconds of saying nothing. "Er—"

And that's when Jacob blurted, "I fancy you."

Abberline closed his mouth with a click.

"Evie told you I mislead people on purpose, and that much is true," Jacob explained.

"Jacob…"

"Let me finish!" he interrupted, taking a quick sip of gin and leaning his elbows on his knees. "I know I can't prove this, but I'm telling you: that's not what this is. I'm forward with you because I think you're wonderful and strange and good. And because I want to see if you enjoy my—my time and attention as much as I enjoy you and your nervous looks and your stupid jokes and your _terrifying_ facial hair—"

"Great, thanks," Abberline returned.

"Sorry. Sorry." Jacob took a deep breath and got back on track. "I understand if you want me to shove off and never speak to you again. For a lot of reasons, I'm sure, including how this," he motioned between them, "is not looked on with kindness. You know that I don't mind a bit of illegal activity, but you're a good man, Freddy. I don't want to drag you down with me."

Jacob hadn't spent much time thinking about how it might go if he ever confessed his feelings to someone, though he might've assumed that it would go about as well as all the times he'd _tricked_ people into thinking he had romantic feelings for him. He had a pretty good success rate there. Based on Abberline's expression, however, he wasn't buying it.

"Are you done?" Abberline asked.

Jacob sighed and looked at the ceiling. "Yes."

"Are you going to ask me why I'm here?"

Jacob thought about it. "Didn't I already?"

"No."

Jacob rolled his empty glass between his palms and took the bait. "Okay. Why are you here, Freddy?"

From the corner of his eye, Jacob could see Abberline watching him, could see the way he rocked ever so slightly back and forth, anxious. Finally, Abberline explained, "Because your sister tracked me down and took back the things she said about you."

Jacob put his glass down much too hard. _Damn it, Evie._

"I wanted to find you and save you the trouble of making a grand speech." Abberline smothered a nervous laugh by finishing his gin. "As for the rest…well. I already break the law for you, don't I?"

Abberline smiled weakly—a half smile for a half joke—and Jacob couldn't fucking take it anymore. He turned Abberline's face and swooped in for a bruising kiss. Abberline made a little noise of shock in the back of his throat, grabbed Jacob's arm with the hand not holding his empty glass.

Jacob drew back for a moment, nose touching Abberline's. "Okay?" Jacob whispered.

"Yes," Abberline murmured back, swallowing.

Jacob moved back in, soft. He dropped one kiss on Abberline's lips, paused. Then another. Little featherlight touches that made Jacob dizzy and made Abberline shiver.

Jacob smiled reflexively. Abberline drew back an inch, getting Jacob in focus. "What?" he said.

"Nothing," Jacob replied. He removed Abberline's hat with a flick of a finger, then leaned back in.

He'd be happy to carry on like this until his neck was sore, but apparently Abberline had other plans. His fingertips traced Jacob's jaw, then down, hooking into the collar of his shirt and giving him a tug forward. Jacob followed, balancing on one knee while swinging the other over Abberline, settling on his lap.

Abberline huffed a warm sigh and leaned in to pepper hesitant kisses on Jacob's neck, nipping a little. Jacob hummed, tilted his head to give Abberline better access. And when that wasn't enough, Jacob started plucking at the buttons on his shirt. Abberline's lips moved down the stretch of Jacob's collarbone and shoulder as they were exposed, and once Jacob's shirt dropped to the floor, Abberline traced shaking fingers up his back, over his sides, down his chest.

"C'mere," Jacob murmured, tilting Abberline's chin up for a slow, deep kiss, massaging their tongues together. Abberline tipped his head up for more, and Jacob gave it to him—rolling his tongue against his, then rolling his hips. Abberline jolted.

"Okay?" he checked again.

"Yes!" Abberline snapped, impatient, pulling Jacob back in by the hair. Jacob smirked through Abberline's insistent kiss and kept rocking his hips, didn't want to stop now that he'd found a rhythm. His cock took interest and Jacob ground down a little harder, which earned him a harsh moan from Abberline.

"Do you wanna, maybe, take off your clothes?" Jacob rasped, thoughts hazy but the desire for Abberline's skin against his perfectly clear. For one nerve-wracking second Abberline went still, eyes flickering back and forth between Jacob's. Jacob feared he'd overstepped…then Abberline started stripping quickly out of his coat, his waistcoat, suspenders, shirt, tie. Jacob slid off Abberline's lap to toe off his own boots and lose his belt and trousers before leaning in and helping Abberline out of his.

Abberline held Jacob's gaze, pupils blown, breath quickening, and lifted his hips so Jacob could ease his trousers off. Jacob stood back a moment, taking the sight of Abberline in—lean, but not lanky. A pretty, half-hard prick between his legs. And, remarkably, just an average amount of body hair. (Jacob had expected _so much_ hair.)

A flush was spreading over Abberline's chest and belly, but for once he wasn't looking nervous or shrinking back. He was staring at Jacob like he was a meal.

"Are you coming back?" Abberline inquired, heady.

Jacob nodded, climbing back into his lap and trapping their cocks between their bellies. Abberline rocked his hips up roughly, the friction to die for. Jacob wrapped his arms around Abberline's shoulders for balance and rolled his own hips, back arching. It made Abberline moan—a low, shuddering sound—so Jacob did it again. And again. And again until they were slick with sweat, Abberline's nails digging into Jacob's back, Jacob's fingers tight in Abberline's hair.

Abberline's fingers tripped down, down Jacob's sides and his abdomen, until they stopped at the wiry hair at the base of his dick. "Jesus, Freddy," Jacob chuckled, trying not to beg but feeling desperately close. "Touch me already."

Abberline did as he was told, taking Jacob in hand and stroking up his cock. His thumb lingered just under the head, pressing on the sensitive skin there, making Jacob's breath hitch. Jacob rocked into his grasp, muscles twitching in his thighs. He could have kept going like that, letting Abberline jerk him until he dissolved into pleasure, but Jacob was a gentleman. (Sometimes.) So he spit into his palm and gripped Abberline's cock, already sticky with precome, getting it wetter yet. He touched their slits together, covered Abberline's hand with his, and began to thrust.

Abberline made a strangled noise and bucked into their combined fist. They rocked together like that, shuddering, panting, Jacob diving in for kisses he couldn't focus on past the heat pooling low in his abdomen. He pulled back to glance at Abberline, at his mussed hair and swollen pink lips, but mostly at his expression. He wore this look of astonishment, like he couldn't believe his luck. And hell if Jacob wouldn't try to make him feel lucky.

Abberline laid his head against Jacob's shoulder, breath hot on his chest, and trailed his free hand down Jacob's back. Lower, lower, time slowing but his touch not stopping until it slipped over Jacob's backside and the tip of one finger tagged his entrance.

Jacob shivered. He wanted to teasingly coo, "Freddy!" but what came out instead out was a ragged gasp— _"Fr—ahhh"_ —and a backward thrust as hard as his forward ones. Abberline's hand followed, one finger rubbing gently over his hole. It sent pleasure screaming up his spine, down his legs, and a few thrusts later, Jacob was coming.

First too, damn him.

Abberline wasn't far behind at least, gasping against Jacob's skin as Jacob continued to roll his hips, rub their cocks together. Jacob kept moving, grip tight, until Abberline cried out, spilling over their hands, onto their stomachs.

Jacob was hot, overheating, and he could barely hold himself on his knees anymore. But before he moved, he had to kiss Abberline one more time. He leaned up, giving him a quick peck, not expecting Abberline to respond with a crushing kiss, rough and sloppy and perfect.

Jacob withdrew and collapsed onto the other side of the chaise longue, sticky with sweat and come and fucking thrilled about it. Abberline for his part had leaned his head way back on the cushions, looking comfortable as you please in the nude. Jacob watched Abberline's breathing normalize, missed the flush on his abdomen as it faded away.

Jacob wanted to make a joke about breaking the law or about Abberline's still-funny shortfall on body hair. He wanted to ask if Abberline enjoyed himself, if only to stroke his own ego. But all he managed to get out was, "Stay with me?"

Abberline nodded, an arm over his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some spoilers for Dreadful Crimes: "Death Stalks the Colonel" and Sequence 8: "Triple Theft."

Abberline had been standing around in the coldest, smelliest part of Southwark for what felt like years, trying to investigate the death of a Colonel Prescott. It had been pissing rain all day besides, meaning that much of the evidence that would have helped solve the case sooner had been washed away.

All he wanted was to be in his flat or on the train with Jacob, curled up in front of a fire so hot it was uncomfortable.

A shadow passed overhead—an umbrella—followed by a casual, "Nice day we're having."

Abberline turned. "Jacob!" The man's smile was better than the sun coming out. Almost. "I was just thinking about you."

"Were you now?" Jacob purred. He tipped the umbrella to the side, blocking the view of the policemen and others milling around the barricades just long enough to steal a kiss.

"What are you doing on my crime scene?" Abberline asked, feeling a little warmer.

"Same as you: investigating."

A third voice, high pitched and low to the ground, spoke: "I suspect the solution will turn on geometry, timing, and human nature."

Abberline leaned over to see past Jacob's shoulder, where he spotted a boy of about ten dressed like a tiny businessman: tie, jacket, bowler—he half-expected him to be smoking a pipe. Abberline shifted his focus back to Jacob, raising an eyebrow.

"Right," Jacob said, turning and drawing the kid under the umbrella, making it officially cramped. "Allow me to introduce my good friend Artie. Artie, this is Sergeant Frederick Abberline, best cop on the force."

Artie held out a small hand and Abberline shook it stiffly.

"Do the police have any leads, Sergeant?" Artie asked, all manners.

"Er—" Abberline glanced at Jacob, who nodded his consent. "The young lads across the street were fooling with a pistol they'd found. A bullet must have gone astray through the wooden fence. Hit Mister Prescott smack in the chest. Bloody unlucky for all concerned."

"What will happen to them?" Jacob asked. Based on his hard look, he already knew the answer.

"Workhouse, probably," Abberline said. Jacob glared, sour enough to send a lesser man running (or a man less familiar with Jacob Frye's inexpressibles, anyway). "They'll get medical care and education there, Jacob. That's better than they have out here," he pointed out, not sure he believed it himself.

"Stealing someone's freedom denies them their humanity," Jacob retorted pridefully, prodding Abberline hard in the chest with his index finger.

Abberline looked between Jacob's finger and face. "Is that a quotation?" he asked.

"Just—something a friend says," Jacob faltered. "Look, I'll ask some questions, poke around, see if I can dig up some new info. I want you home in time so I can give _you_ a poke." Jacob nudged Abberline with his hip, continuing, "If you know what I mean."

Abberline cleared his throat loudly, jerking his chin toward Artie. Jacob waved a hand dismissively and said, "Oh he's, like, eight. He doesn't know what we're talking about."

"Actually I'm nine," Artie contested, folding his arms, "and I _do_ know what you're talking about."

Jacob's eyes flickered between Abberline and Artie for a second before asking the kid, "Are you going to tell anyone?"

"No?" Artie responded, tone implying that he didn't know why he would.

"Good." Jacob handed Abberline the umbrella and squatted down to be on Artie's level. "Because if you do, I'll see to it that you never step foot on another grisly crime scene again. Understood?" Artie nodded once. Jacob straightened and pulled his cloak tighter around him, shrugging a little against the chill. "I'll be back. Artie, stay with Sergeant Abberline so he can use your umbrella."

Hw opened his mouth to protest—much as he liked being dry, he detested babysitting—but Jacob was halfway across the street in a flash.

Abberline shifted his weight between his feet, then looked down at Artie, who had pulled a notebook out of his messenger bag and was writing on it with slow, careful penmanship.

"What's that then?" Abberline asked.

"Field notes," Artie responded, eyes still on the notebook. "Please abstain from interruptions."

"Er—right." Abberline looked back toward where Jacob had just disappeared through a window on the upper level of a nearby shop, willing him to hurry.  


* * *

  
"Sorry I'm late," Jacob said, showing up in the train a full half hour later than he'd asked Abberline to be there. He discarded his hat and cloak at the door. Neither of them made it to the coat rack, which Abberline was sure Jacob knew was there. "Got a little sidetracked."

"'S fine," Abberline replied lethargically.

He meant it: he couldn't care less that Jacob was late. When Abberline had walked into the sleeper car, now familiar after spending more and more of his nights there, he'd found a big copper tub pulled up next to the roaring fire. He'd dipped a finger in the bathwater (which was just this side of too hot), groaned, and immediately peeled off all his soggy clothes.

The tub was where Jacob found him now, just Abberline's head and the tops of his knees peeking out of the water.

"I believe it," Jacob said, strolling over and sitting on the floor. "Look at you," he added, resting his arm on the rim of the tub and leaning his head on his hand. "Snug as a bug."

Abberline sat up a little and brushed back Jacob's hair with pruney fingertips, still a little awed that he could just—do that. Could reach out and touch the man who'd occupied his thoughts for months, and have that same man turn his face to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, easy.

"Where were you?" Abberline asked.

On the flipside, there was this. When Abberline would ask a simple question and Jacob would give him a long, uncertain look. He knew Jacob was protecting Abberline from information more than he was covering for the Assassins or the Rooks, but that didn't make it painless. It grated on him, a little persistent itch that complicated the sorts of discussions that other lovers considered routine.

Then again, other couples weren't often comprised of one man who professionally investigates murders and another who professionally commits them. Jacob liked to say that it balanced them out.

"Kidnapping some Templars?" Jacob revealed finally, grimacing like he was preparing for a slap.

Abberline sighed and rubbed the corner of his eye with a knuckle, thinking of all Jacob's failed bounty hunts for Scotland Yard. "Did any of them even make it to your destination?"

"I took them all alive, thank you very much, _and_ without harming any of their guards," Jacob said, managing to sound as vexed with Abberline as he was pleased with himself. "Though getting that art dealer out of the sewers was a chore."

"An art dealer?" Abberline echoed, grim. Didn't sound like your run-of-the-mill thug.

"And fiend, I assure you," Jacob replied. Reading Abberline's expression, he added, "Hey. I'm one of the good guys, remember?"

Abberline nodded. "I know," he murmured. "Thanks for helping solve that case today."

"My pleasure."

"And thanks for the bath."

"Figured you'd need some warming up." Jacob trailed his fingers through the water and continued, "I wasn't kidding about having _relations_ tonight, by the way." Jacob had a special talent when it came to making tame synonyms for sex sound sinful. He could make anything sound sinful, come to think of it.

Smirking at the glint in Jacob's eye, Abberline tilted his head and rhymed, "No joking when it comes to poking?"

Jacob rolled his eyes and splashed water at Abberline's face. "Get out of the tub, Freddy."

Abberline stood and stepped over the edge of the tub. He started toweling off, a puddle forming at his feet. Meanwhile, Jacob got up and started getting undressed, no rush as he shed his layers.

Abberline waited, watched, indulged in the view of all Jacob's hard angles bathed in soft light. He held his breath for this—the in between, the time separating the moment when Jacob finished stripping down to nothing and the moment when one of them would cross the floor to touch the other.

Jacob made his move, stepping forward and taking away Abberline's towel. He rubbed it over Abberline's hair, pulling him in for a leisurely kiss. Jacob tasted like wine and, against Abberline's mild and soapy post-bath scent, smelled powerfully of…London. Of Jacob. Sweat and soot and a little like cologne, which he knew Jacob was fond of even if he'd never admit it. Jacob's skin was still a little cool from the outdoors, and Abberline tried to transfer the warmth of the bath to him—cupping his ears, caressing his jaw, pressing their bodies flush together.

Jacob broke the kiss and dropped Abberline's towel on the floor. "On the bed," he said, with a little push against Abberline's side. "Belly down."

Abberline crawled up the bed and lowered himself to his stomach, still warm and lethargic. The mattress dipped when Jacob followed. "Up," Jacob directed. Abberline moved closer to the headboard, wrapping his arms around a pillow and turning his head to the side. He watched Jacob walk forward on his knees before nudging Abberline's legs apart. Jacob leaned in to run his hands down Abberline's back, massaging the sore muscles there then moving down to the curve of his ass, still rubbing, kneading. Jacob caught Abberline's eye as his head dipped lower and lower, and then— _ohh_. Abberline whined into his pillow, shivering.

So the bath came with a motive, Abberline saw now. Jacob's tongue was making slow circles around Abberline's rim, breath hot on his hole. Abberline couldn't help it—he lifted his hips off the bed, wanting more. Jacob moved lower yet, rolling his tongue up and down Abberline's balls. He huffed a happy laugh into the pillow, which turned into a moan as Jacob mouthed his way back up to Abberline's rim, leaving stroking fingers on his balls. He alternated between slow laps and quick little flicks that made Abberline's legs quiver.

Jacob was an impetuous man, but he still had patterns, so when he pressed a palm firmly against Abberline's lower back, he knew what was coming next. The tip of Jacob's tongue breached his hole. Again. And again, shallow but curling, making Abberline fist his hands in the pillow and grind back on Jacob's face until he buried his tongue in to the root. Abberline cried out and thumped a fist against the mattress.

Maybe he was the one with patterns. If not for Jacob's hand splayed on his back, Abberline might have bucked right off the bed. Jacob pulled off long enough for a breath and a smug chuckle, hot on Abberline's already over-sensitized skin, before diving back in. Jacob slid a thumb into Abberline's hole, just to the knuckle, bending and flexing while he continued to suck at the skin there. Jacob switched his thumb for his index, moving it slowly in and out.

Jacob straightened, getting back to his knees. Abberline missed his mouth, but at least now when he turned his face to the side, he could look at him, could appreciate Jacob's wet lips and hardening dick. And that was a visual he'd never tire of.

"Freddy, the oil," Jacob breathed. Abberline reached for the bedside table and rummaged blindly for the bottle Jacob kept in the drawer. He found it by touch and handed it backward. Jacob plucked it from his fingers and removed the stopper with a pop. "Perfect."

Jacob trailed a slippery finger down the center of Abberline's back before nudging it past his rim. He worked the finger in deep, while reaching his other hand between Abberline's legs to slick his cock. Abberline shuddered, arched his back. Sweat was collecting on the insides of his elbows and knees, and he could just make out Jacob's own harsh breathing and the obscene sounds of wet skin on wet skin over the rushing in his ears.

Jacob crooked his fingers and caressed that—spot. That pleasure point that Abberline didn't understand and didn't care to, as long as Jacob kept finding it and making Abberline mewl, no trace of shame. Abberline's fingernails bit into the bedding and he rolled his hips as Jacob found a rhythm, hitting the spot over and over and stroking Abberline's cock in time.

He could feel fire in his back and his belly, a spring coiling tightly, and something told him he should warn Jacob, should hold off. He managed a stuttered, "J-Jacob!" But the impulse was lost as Abberline's vision faded to black. He came, shooting on the bedspread, muscles jerking and a surge of blasphemies pouring from his mouth.

Abberline melted, body going limp, and Jacob's hands stilled. He pushed Abberline over onto his back, away from the mess on the bedding, and asked, "Did you just call me a 'scoundrel'?"

Panting, Abberline said, "Did I?"

"I think you did."

"I don't—" Abberline's breath hitched, finally getting Jacob into focus and seeing his eyes dark with lust, his cock thick and leaking without being touched, "—I don't recall."

"Well, you're not wrong." Jacob moved forward, settled between Abberline's legs. "Can I still—?" He rolled his hips once, prick sliding along the divot between Abberline's groin and thigh. Abberline nodded.

Jacob grabbed the oil where he'd dropped it on the foot of the bed and coated his dick, hands shaking a little. Abberline tried to lift his legs, his hips, but his muscles wouldn't cooperate. So Jacob gave him an assist, hooking an arm under Abberline's leg and practically bending him two, easy. He used his free hand to guide the head of his cock to Abberline's entrance but paused, eyes on his.

Abberline reached for Jacob, getting a hand on his side and drawing him forward, inward.

Like this, without the need for release pulsing through him, Abberline got a truly unfettered view of Jacob in pleasure. And it was—sublime. Jacob's lips parted, eyes glazed over with awe as he sunk into Abberline, inch by careful inch until their hips were snug together. He tensed, waited a few moments for Abberline to get used to the pressure, before sliding back out, slow, his whole body shuddering.

Jacob got his other arm under Abberline's other knee and started snapping his hips. Jacob usually took his time with this, but now it was all urgency. Abberline could feel his back scooting up the bed, the sweet stretch and burn enough to get his spent prick interested.

Jacob's hair fell in his face and Abberline reached up to push it back, captivated by the expressions he saw there—stunned pleasure, unfettered happiness—and astonished by the fact that he had any part in them. For the second time that evening, Jacob turned his face and pressed his lips to Abberline's wrist. Then he leaned down, and Abberline lifted his head for a kiss—slow and deep.

Abberline sucked Jacob's lip into his mouth and Jacob inhaled sharply, hips stuttering. Abberline let his head drop back on the bed and Jacob darted in, going straight for the vulnerable spot on his neck with a kiss and a sucking bite. Abberline sighed, too dazed and blissful to notice the pain if there was any, and wrapped his hands around Jacob's neck, keeping him there. Jacob moved to Abberline's collarbone, nipping and soothing with little licks.

Jacob arched his back, coming up for air. He was panting now, gulping for air as he slammed into Abberline, driving his cock in and in and in. Abberline watched the coin on a string at Jacob's throat swing up and down, watched his dark hair do the same. Abberline traced the hair on Jacob's chest, a thin sheen of sweat there now. He brushed his thumbs over Jacob's nipples, something that had little effect on Abberline himself but always made Jacob startle and gulp.

Abberline rolled his hips, meeting Jacob's and making him smile, just briefly, a flicker of gratification that was quickly swallowed up by a moan. Jacob's muscles were quivering, the pounding of his hips uneven, and in a rare moment of boldness, Abberline rasped:

"Come for me, Jacob."

Four little words and Jacob was lost—choking, crying out, his body stilling as he pulsed and spilled inside Abberline, gasping, "Fred—oh _God, Freddy._ Freddy…"

Jacob continued to thrust weakly, trembling through his orgasm, before pulling out and collapsing on Abberline, who laughed, nuzzled his hair, kissed his ear. Abberline stretched his cramping legs then hooked them loosely around Jacob, doing the same with his arms. A minute or two passed before Jacob recovered enough to move. He propped himself up on one elbow, drowsily murmured "cleanup," and dropped a kiss on Abberline's forehead.

Abberline maybe should've taken charge at that point, his legs no longer jelly, but he didn't stop Jacob when he rolled off the bed. He padded across the room to dampen a washcloth in the bathwater, then came back and wiped Abberline down, gentle, before using the cloth on himself. He brushed down the bedspread where Abberline's come was half-dry before tossing the cloth over his shoulder.

If Jacob had been aiming for the tub, he missed spectacularly. At least it didn't land in the fire.

Abberline kicked the bedspread down and off the bed and crawled under the other blankets, which were fortunately dry. He held them up for Jacob, who joined him. They squirmed a bit as they always did, trying to find a good position on the narrow mattress. This time, Abberline ended up on his stomach, Jacob facing him on his side while tracing his fingers up and down Abberline's back.

"I was thinking," Jacob said, apropos of nothing, "that I needed to find a business to invest my ill-gotten gains."

Abberline folded his arms under the pillow, tilting his head for a better look at Jacob. "What brings this on?" he asked, curious.

"Mostly the train safe is just—very full," Jacob replied. "What do you think I should do with it all? I can't just keep it."

"I don't know," Abberline said honestly. He'd never planned on having a lot of money himself, and so he'd never given any thought to what he'd do with it if he did. "I suppose I'd start by giving the Rooks you forced to bring in bath water a raise."

Jacob chortled. "That's a start. I also need to get us a bigger bed."

That swirled around in Abberline's head, one change in pronoun enough to daze him. "Us," he repeated, just a murmur.

"Hmm?" Jacob returned sleepily.

"Nothing," Abberline said, shifting his head a little farther up the pillow. "By the by, have you heard the joke about the bed?"

Jacob sighed. "No. But since you're using your joke voice, I have a feeling I'm about to."

Abberline barely waited for him to finish before delivering the punchline: "It hasn't been _made up_ yet."

Jacob blinked, processing, then groaned. "Get out," he grouched.

"No."

Jacob tried to push Abberline off the side of the bed and Abberline yelped, fisting the sheets and shifting onto his side, inserting a leg between Jacob's for purchase. Jacob gave him another unsuccessful shove, muttering something that sounded a lot like 'I can't believe I like you.' Abberline scooted closer, laughed against Jacob's chest.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Sequence 8: "Fun and Games" and "Final Act."

Abberline was squinting at the book in his lap, the orange glow of late afternoon almost too dim to keep reading without an extra light. He was cozy in his armchair though, tucked into the corner of the rooms he rented and lived in most of the year while his house in Bournemouth gathered dust. The nearest lamp was just out of reach and Abberline, legs tired, had resigned to keep reading until he truly couldn't see the words on the page. He reckoned he had about twenty minutes.

Or he would have had twenty minutes, had he not startled and thrown the volume on the floor a moment later. That was when Jacob swung through the open window feet first, knocking a few of Abberline's effects off the desk beneath the window before landing on the floor with a near-inaudible thud.

Jacob had said previously that if Abberline didn't want him bursting into his home uninvited, he simply shouldn't leave the window open. This failed to acknowledge that the only reason Abberline left the window open was because Jacob had broken the lock on a previous visit and he didn't want to keep paying to replace it. Now Abberline was past the point of expecting peace and privacy in his rooms, but that didn't stop him from jolting whenever Jacob blew in like a dapper-but-lethal wind.

Jacob straightened up and set a small wooden chest at the foot of the bed. He didn't make fun of Abberline's scared reaction, which was usually the first thing Jacob did when he called. Instead, he gazed silently at Abberline for a moment before twitching back to life, starting to pace the short length of the room.

Abberline unfolded himself and stood from the chair, moving over. "What's in the box?" he asked.

"Dead bird," Jacob responded impassively.

Abberline tipped the edge of the box open, curious, then abruptly snapped it shut and moved it over to the desk.

"Jacob?"

Jacob kept walking. Five steps to the north wall of the room, pivot, five steps south. Abberline laid a hand on his arm and Jacob jolted a little, ceasing his pacing and turning to look at Abberline.

Abberline knew Jacob's primary expressions well. Most of them were some variation of smug, sly, or teasing. There was neutral; there was confused. More and more he'd been treated to his favorites: happy, content, aroused. The looks playing across his face now were new, and Abberline didn't like them. Jacob looked nervous. Jacob looked guilty.

"Jacob," he repeated, softer this time.

"I need your help," Jacob admitted in a hush. He fished in one of his cloak's inner pockets and produced a folded piece of stationary.

Abberline took it and skimmed. It was a nice enough note—cordial, even, from start to close. "Who's Maxwell?" Abberline asked, eye on the signature.

Jacob chewed the inside of his cheek. "Maxwell…Roth."

Abberline looked up from the note, not believing his ears. "The leader of the Blighters," Abberline said, not phrasing it as a question, resisting the urge to add some choice words like 'sadistic' or 'mental.' Jacob nodded. "And you were having," he consulted Roth's letter, "'adventures'?"

Jacob slipped the note from Abberline's fingers, tucking it back into his cloak. "He wanted to cause a little chaos, to—splinter Starrick's operation from the inside. We destroyed some explosives, moved some Templars around…" Jacob made a vague circular motion with one hand.

"And things have since gone south?" Abberline supplied.

"Today—" Jacob stopped, looked around the room. "Today he set fire to one of Starrick's buildings. With children inside," he explained. He shook his head. "That's not the whole of it. _I_ placed the explosives, but when I saw the kids…" Jacob shifted his weight between his feet. "I tried to stop him. He didn't like that. I got most of the kids out."

'Most of.' Most of the kids.

Jacob pressed his lips into a line, eyes everywhere except on Abberline. "Jacob," Abberline said, delicate. He planted his hands on either side of Jacob's face, rubbing his thumbs along his stubble. Jacob closed his eyes. "What do you need?"

"The show," he said, swallowing hard. "Roth's going to hurt people. I don't know how, but…"

"I'll come," Abberline replied, quick. Jacob's eyes slid open and he looked at Abberline, unsure. "I'll come," he repeated. "Now, do you know the dress code?"

Jacob spared him a tight smile and leaned forward to kiss Abberline above the ear, tucking his nose into his hair.  
  


* * *

  
Even after equipping Abberline with smoke bombs, a pocket pistol, and his third favorite cane-sword, Jacob worried. He should have done this on his own even if he was feeling—he grimaced— _vulnerable_.

Abberline had repeatedly reminded him that he had the same training as all the other deadly policemen who prowled London and smacked Jacob around with billy clubs, but that didn't stop Jacob's heart from pounding in his ears as Abberline wandered the main level, "accidentally" knocking free the masks of Roth's decoys. At any point, one of them could spin on Abberline, holding a knife high. One of them could be Roth himself who, if he'd had eyes on Jacob all this time, probably had eyes on Abberline too. Jacob tried not to think about what Roth might do if he had Abberline within reach.

This is exactly why Jacob had wanted to just kill all the decoys outright. Abberline had nixed that plan, of course, saying something about "absolute fewest number of murders, Jacob, for God's sakes." Jacob conceded, knowing that if he'd listened to the angel on his shoulder this whole time he probably wouldn't be in this mess.

Decoys identified, Abberline moved on to his next task: interrupting and sowing fear among theatre-goers, telling them not to volunteer, begging them to leave before things got out of control. Jacob caught his eye (or at least he thought he did, bloody masks) before disappearing backstage.

He wound through props and equipment, sneaking up on and smothering Blighters one by one. He could hear Roth taunting him, and he half-hoped it was all in his head. Roth threw barbs about his moral compass, his so-called bravery, all the while calling him _my dear._ Jacob didn't want Abberline to hear any of it. Abberline, who thought Jacob was good. Abberline, who trusted Jacob enough to follow him into a trap without even suggesting they call Scotland Yard first.

Jacob climbed up to the rafters, squatting and searching for the gold mask hiding the real Roth. It didn't take long. The man strolled out to center stage, laughing oilily.

"I hope you've enjoyed your evening so far, ladies and gentlemen. I know I have. Now, before our final act, I'd like to toast all you brave people who joined us tonight to celebrate life…and death."

_Oh no._

Cup raised high, Roth looked to the Blighters on either side of the stage, holding torches. "Go on," he spurred. "Toast 'em!"

The Blighters threw back mouthfuls of whatever they had in their own cups and spat fire at the lush drapes on either side of the stage. Jacob saw flames erupt all around the theater—more Blighters following Roth's demented orders, he guessed. The blaze was moving quicker than the screaming theatre-goers could get to the exits—it was like Roth had lined the entire Alhambra with kindling. Hell, maybe he had.

Roth was howling, "BURN! BURN! BURN!" as Jacob stalked along the grid, looking for a way to kill the man without getting in range of the fire-breathing duo of Blighters who flanked him.

Jacob was making his way along the crossover that hung almost directly above his target when he spotted Abberline fighting through the crowd, running deeper into the blazing theater instead of out of it. He was looking around, frantic, his mouth forming the word, "Jacob!" but the sound swallowed up by the shrieking, the fire.

"Who's this?" cackled Roth as Abberline vaulted onto the stage. "Ah, Sergeant Abberline, in the flesh! The very man responsible for keeping Jacob so— _frigid."_ Jacob hear the rotten smile on Roth's face as he spat his next orders: "Torch him."

Jacob panicked, a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like his father hissing, _'Jacob, what have you done?'_ He froze on the spot, fighter's reflexes misfiring, and cried, "STOP!"

In the split-second that the Blighters were distracted from their instructions, Abberline—face harder than Jacob had ever seen it—drew his pistol and fired two impeccable point-blank headshots. The Blighters crumpled to the floor.

Roth made it just a half-step in Abberline's direction before Jacob's brain regained operationality. He launched himself over the crossover railing and plunged his blade deep in Roth's neck, using the man's body to break his fall.

Jacob knelt next to Roth, watching the man gurgle, watching blood well up through the fingers at his neck, then in his mouth, his nose. "Darling!" Roth said, dazzling as he could manage. "What a night. The stuff of legends."

Jacob considered him, seething. "Why did you do it? All of it?"

"What?" Roth replied, smiling shakily. "Snap a baby crow's neck between my thumb and forefinger? Slice to bits the ones you deem innocent? Keep the world in its divine manic state? For the same reason I do anything—" Roth reached up, sprightly to the end, and pulled Jacob down for a crushing, blood-soaked kiss. Jacob shoved him away and wiped his face on his sleeve as Roth crowed, _"Why not?"_

The man's death rattle came on the tail of one last anarchic laugh.

Jacob knelt there, dazed, looking down at Roth's bloody face, slack and pale. Jacob swiped a kerchief through the blood at Roth's neck, automatic, his hands working without his brain's consent.

How was he any different than Roth, really? He came to London to run wild, to do as he pleased. He reveled in chaos, swore by the blast of gunpowder and crunch of bones under his knuckles. When would living by even the loosest principles become too humdrum for him? Had it already begun?

_"Jacob!"_

Jacob snapped to, surprised to look down and see Abberline's fists in his collar, shaking him. He tilted his head up and Abberline's face swam into focus, all narrow mouth and knit eyebrows. Fury. Or maybe it was fear.

"Jacob, we need to get out of here!"

Abberline dragged Jacob to his feet. That's when the details of the scene began to fill in: the smoke, the flames, the theater crumbling around them, the bodies littering the floor. _Oh,_ he thought, detached. _I'm going to die._

And then, _**We're** going to die. Freddy's going to die._

Something—reality, he supposed—seized him by the balls. Jacob found his footing, then found Abberline's hand. They leapt from the stage to the main floor, bolting for the front entrance, hurtling overturned chairs and fallen beams, dodging a charred corpse as it tipped from one of the upper levels to fall at their feet.

They were almost to the foyer when an immense section of the ceiling collapsed, blocking the way and getting them both a mouthful of soot. "No! No, no," Jacob groaned. Abberline yanked him backward, back toward the main hall.

They were coughing, choking, looking around and seeing nothing but smoke. Then Jacob realized: _up._ "Freddy!" he said, lifting the arm he wore his bracer on and pointing toward the balconies. Abberline understood. He threw his arms around Jacob's shoulders and Jacob launched them to the third floor. They stumbled, rolled, then got back on the move.

They half-tripped, half-jumped down the stairs toward reception and finally, lungs and eyes stinging from smoke, burst through the front doors.

Jacob and Abberline staggered away from the Alhambra and across the street, coughing, narrowly missing getting hit by a fire truck. Abberline steered him toward the fountain in the middle of the block, and when they reached it, they crumpled at its edge.

Jacob dipped his hands in the fountain, watching as Roth's blood sluiced away, twisting like vapor through the water. He pulled off his glove and his bracer and rinsed his face, figuring water that was half beggar piss was still better than Roth's blood and saliva. Water dripped off his face, from the tips of his hair where he'd gotten it wet. He watched the ripples it made at the edge of the fountain where the water was mostly still. When he registered his own reflection, he saw that there was still soot on his face where he hadn't washed. He plunged his hand back in, getting more water to wash with.

Abberline put a hand on his back. _Freddy._ Jesus.

"Freddy. Are you—?"

"I'm fine," Abberline replied. Jacob looked at him, at his singed clothes and sooty face. "Really," he added, for good measure.

He didn't ask Jacob if he was all right. He didn't need to. Instead, he said, "Do you want to leave?" Jacob nodded, watching the pump hoses on the fire trucks fail to tame the flames overtaking the Alhambra. "Back to the train?"

"No," Jacob said. "To yours."

Abberline got them home by coach, not saying a word. They got into Abberline's little flat and changed out of their smoke-smelling clothes and washed up. Abberline turned the lamp down and they crawled into bed, still quiet. Jacob laid on his side and Abberline slid in behind him, lined up back to stomach, arse to groin, knees to knees. He draped an arm over Jacob's chest, and Jacob threaded their fingers.

Jacob waited, eyes open, the details of the room just visible in the glow of the street lights outside. He thought he should apologize to Abberline. For asking him along, for those dead Blighters. For accepting Roth's invitation to meet in the first place. Instead he decided on silence, on waiting for Abberline's breathing to go slow and even in sleep. But the minutes ticked by and Abberline stayed awake with him, thumb tracing little circles on Jacob's hand.

"Do you think I'm like him?" Jacob asked, soft.

"Who, Roth?" Abberline did a good job of sounding like that hadn't occurred to him. "No, of course not."

Jacob swallowed hard. "I think I'm like him. Roth did too."

"Well, he was wrong, wasn't he?" Abberline replied, practical. "And your partnership was short lived because of it—because you're so very far from the same."

It was nice to hear, but it wasn't true. Jacob didn't want to make Abberline understand. Not just because he didn't want to spend energy putting it all into words, but also because he was afraid that once Abberline got it, he'd leave.

Abberline propped himself up on an elbow and, releasing his hand, nudged Jacob onto his back. "Jacob Frye, I know you," he said. "You are honest and fair and always have the right intentions, if not the…wisest methods."

Jacob laughed. Or hiccupped. Or sobbed, he wasn't really sure. He covered his eyes with one palm. Abberline reached over and placed his hand over Jacob's, blocking out what little light there was left.

"I've been thinking about what you said, about needing a place to invest your money," Abberline told him. He must've known that was a Roth thing now. That, along with God knows how much other information Jacob had recited for him in the past few weeks.

"Freddy—"

"No, hear me out," Abberline interrupted, calm. "A lot of pre-existing enterprises will hesitate to take your money, not knowing how you came by it. That's why I think you should build your own. Not a business, though. A charity." Jacob knit his brows beneath his palm, listening intently. "Bring services to Babylon Alley and to children all around London. Food, clothing, medicine. Start small and mobile, then grow."

Abberline paused, shifting a little closer. He continued, "I know how you love to go above and beyond for your urchins, stealing them from factories, getting them out of manslaughter charges…" The 'carrying them from burning buildings that you're partially responsible for setting alight' went unspoken. "It will take a lot of planning and some hired help, but I think this is a natural extension of your vision for a better London. And it's an operation the Metropolitan Police won't try to shut down, besides."

Abberline lifted his hand from Jacob's and asked, "What do you think?"

Jacob thought that Abberline was too good for him. Jacob thought it was a marvel that Abberline stayed with him, that he could see Jacob's brand of violent gang leadership and interpret that as a 'vision for a better London.' Jacob thought it was stupid that he might be in love—and that love felt so much like his heart was breaking.

He said none of this, of course. Instead Jacob nodded, mute. He uncovered his eyes and smiled up at Abberline, or tried anyway. "Capital idea, Freddy," he murmured, reaching up and giving the edge of his beard a little tug.


	12. Chapter 12

Abberline watched the Gladstones' coach roll up his alley, a poorly disguised Rook at the reins. He flinched as it hit a hole in the road particularly hard, the lanterns on the side of the carriage rattling and the horse whinnying nervously. He'd gotten Jacob to agree to return the coach when he was done with it but had failed to specify 'in once piece.'

The carriage eased to a stop in front of him and Jacob stepped out, wearing a sharply tailored suit and a gratified smirk that indicated he knew exactly how he looked in it. 'Dashing' was really the only word for it. Abberline thought someone ought to follow Jacob around with a fainting couch for the many lightheaded ladies—and gentlemen—he must leave in his wake.

Jacob held out a hand, palm up, and crooned, "Your carriage has arrived, sir."

Abberline indulged him, trying to hide the foolish grin that stole over his face as he took Jacob's hand and climbed inside. Jacob followed, sitting opposite him, and slapped the door of the coach to tell the driver they were clear to move.

"Can we do uniforms more often?" Jacob asked, lifting the bearskin out of Abberline's hands and setting it aside to get a better look at him. "You're handsome in that."

"You too," Abberline pointed out.

Jacob ran his hands down his own chest and leered. "Oh, I know," he said, husky. "Do you think some royal lady will ask me to dance?"

Abberline rolled his eyes and informed him, "I believe etiquette dictates that it's the gentleman's duty to ask for a dance."

"Well then," Jacob cooed, "you'd best not leave me in the lurch, Mister Abberline." He bumped his knee against Abberline's. Abberline bumped him back. "Dancing on top of Buckingham Palace…sounds like something out of one of Evie's old diaries. When we were fifteen or so, she wrote a whole serial about being seduced by a royal guard." Jacob shook his head, looking distant. "Kissing scenes were okay, but the dialogue was pretty forced."

Abberline felt a swell of secondhand embarrassment. "Poor Evie," he said. "You used to read her diaries?"

Jacob grinned, scrunching his nose. "Used to? Still do! They're a lot more boring since she got all Assassin-y though. More record keeping, fewer fictionalized accounts of bottle-blue eyes and rippling muscles."

"She's probably just figured out that you read them," Abberline pointed out.

Jacob appeared to consider that for a moment, then shook his head. "No, she spends way too much ink complaining about me for that to be possible."

Abberline was quite sure his argument still stood, but he decided to change tracks. "So, about tonight…" Jacob cocked his head. "Want to fill me in?"

"I already did," Jacob said. "You smuggle in our gear, we come and take said gear, then you go to Charing Cross and wait for me back on the train."

"And the attack?" Abberline prompted. "I know it's Starrick. How will he strike?"

 _"That's confidential,"_ Jacob replied, putting on his Abberline impression, which was always more imperious than strictly necessary. "Just get the weapons in and we'll do the rest, Freddy." Abberline folded his arms, giving Jacob an expectant look. "What?"

"You know I'd be a more effective ally if I had all the information," Abberline explained. "I can evacuate people or—or keep a lookout. I can fight."

"I know you can fight," Jacob replied, like doubting Abberline's aptitude was the real problem here.

Abberline scoffed. "How long do you think we can go on like this?" he asked, holding firm. "Me doing your bidding while you provide me little to no insight on what you're up to?"

Looking out the window, Jacob reminded him: "We have an arrangement. We provide you bounties, and you look the other way while—"

Abberline cut him off, retorting, "We spend almost every night in the same bed. I'd say the nature of our 'arrangement' has changed."

Jacob's eyebrows drew together. "Are we having an argument?" he asked, looking Abberline over uncertainly. "Because I'd been planning on finishing this carriage ride by sucking your prick."

"Don't try and redirect me," Abberline grumbled.

"I'm not; that was actually my plan. You're very cute in that uniform and, bonus, riding to the ball amid our fuck fumes would make Evie _furious_." Abberline scowled at him, and Jacob offered, "I'm up for an angry blowsie as long as you don't mess up my outfit too much?"

 _"No,"_ Abberline spat.

Jacob rolled his eyes, didn't look back at him when he was done. "For God's sakes, Freddy—"

"This is just like what happened with Roth," Abberline hissed.

Jacob blanched. They hadn't brought up Roth even once, not since the directly after the Alhambra when Abberline filled the silence and pretended he didn't notice how wet Jacob's eyes were. "If you'd said to me: 'Hey, _Freddy,_ some man named Maxwell Roth sent me a letter and wants to meet' I would have told you: 'Actually, that man's a deranged maniac, maybe decline.'"

"I knew perfectly well what I was getting myself into," Jacob muttered, finally looking frustrated. "My biggest mistake," he added, jabbing a finger in Abberline's direction, "was asking for your help."

"How?!"

"Because it nearly got you killed, Freddy!"

"Oh, don't sell me a dog," Abberline groaned. Jacob flicked his hands dismissively, slumping where he sat. "You're not worried about my well being, you're worried about me seeing you and your bloody 'Brotherhood' for what they really are. It wasn't just Roth and Twopenny. You were behind the murders of Dr. Elliotson, Pearl Attaway, Lord Cardigan—"

Jacob cut him off, exclaiming, "If you've _already figured out what I've been up to,_ why are you shouting at me right now?!"

"Because I want you to trust me enough to tell me why you do it!" Abberline blared back.

Jacob retorted with a sort of close-lipped scream, making a strangling motion with his hands.

They spent the rest of the ride staring out opposite windows. Abberline was wound so tightly that he seriously considered taking Jacob up on his 'angry blowsie' offer, but decided against it because that felt too much like letting the man win.

—

After a terse exchange on the roof of the palace—no dancing—Jacob dipped behind a curtain to change out of his formal wear. He strolled back out, carrying Evie's gear in one hand, and Abberline said, "Look." He nodded toward Starrick's snipers, the bearskin throwing him a little off-balance as he did so.

Jacob blew out a breath. "Right. I'll kill the impostors and rescue the captives."

"How?" Abberline asked, skeptical. "It's impossible to tell the difference."

"Because all Assassins have _supernatural vision_ that allows us to easily pick out our targets," Jacob replied, waggling his fingers.

"Har har."

They stood for a moment, watching the fake guards.

"Are you going back to the train?" Jacob asked. Abberline shrugged. He didn't really have a reason to stay aside from annoying Jacob, though at the moment that felt like reason enough. Jacob sighed. "Fine, stay. We can use your eyewitness account when we save Britain."

Abberline would have said "har har" again if he didn't have a growing suspicion that that was exactly what Jacob and Evie were about to do. Why did Starrick need so many snipers? The scale of this attack seemed to be bigger than Abberline had anticipated.

They paused a moment, neither of them moving, then Jacob ventured, "Would you consider a kiss for good luck, or are you still too angry with me?"

String music drifted up from the party below along with the chatter of guests, their words unintelligible but their elegant accents distinct. The stars were sparkling above, and if Jacob wasn't about to go murder a bunch of people, it would have been pretty romantic. Evie's rumored romance serial had that much right.

Abberline glanced left and right to see if there were any other guards in eyeshot. When he looked back at Jacob, the man was grinning, knowing he'd persuaded him. Abberline rolled his eyes and lifted his hand, motioning for Jacob to _come hither_ with one finger.

Jacob glided forward and removed Abberline's hat, holding it aside by the chinstrap while he leaned in for a kiss. Abberline forgot to close his eyes at first, wondering at the way Jacob wrinkled his brow when he kissed him, almost like it hurt. He remembered his manners after a moment, letting his eyes slip shut and kissing Jacob back. It was a soft, familiar thing, and Abberline mimicked Jacob, removing the man's hat with one hand and hooking him close with the opposite arm.

He didn't mean to indulge him, to feed Jacob's lifetime of people never saying no (or, more accurately, his lifetime of people saying 'no' and Jacob choosing to ignore them). But when he was all warm eyes and curling lips, it was damn near impossible to resist.

Jacob broke the kiss but stayed close, their foreheads pressed together. Abberline cracked an eye open and could see Jacob looking at him. "When tonight's over," Jacob said, low, "I'll tell you everything. All right?"

Abberline nodded, reaching up to put Jacob's hat back on. Jacob returned the favor, leaning back and trying to get the bearskin on straight, adjusting and readjusting until he looked satisfied. "I'll see you soon," Jacob concluded, before loping off toward Starrick's henchmen.

Abberline watched him and, like the fight club so long ago, it was hard to look away. Jacob was graceful and deadly, jogging up behind the impostors and silencing, stabbing, spinning some of the guards like dancers as his blade slit their throats. He dropped in and out of view, and after a few minutes he climbed back to the top of the palace, signaling Evie with a hand raised high.

Abberline thought about the train, about getting out of his uniform. It was scratchy, and it smelled like another man. A nice-smelling man, but still. He walked along the rooftop in the direction of the ball and the door he'd used to get up there in the first place. That's when he saw Jacob break off from the crowd. He sprinted to the pond and dove in, paddling at full speed. Jacob vanished into the trees on the far edge of the pond just as Evie slipped around the corner of the palace. A minute later, two explosions punctured the leisured harmonies of the ball, sending flames up the trees Jacob had just rushed into.

Abberline's stomach dropped. Not thinking, he bolted for the staircase door, practically ripping it off its hinges when he got there. He raced down the stairs in a sort of controlled fall, violently shoving a royal guard aside well before he could finish his call of, "Oi! Who're you?"

Even at top speed the path was too long—there were two separate staircases that got to the ground floor, then he had to pass through a few back rooms before finding the exit, which was about as far from Jacob and Evie as possible. He tossed his bearskin aside at one point; he didn't recall precisely when.

Abberline ran through the empty courtyard. The ball had cleared out, party-goers crowding at the edge of the pond with a few royal guardsmen holding them back. Abberline charged through the guests and past the guards—they yelled something, but he didn’t care. He jumped in the pond, his muscles screaming _cold, cold, cold_  as he swam, but Abberline paid them no mind.

In the trees, half-blind from smoke, Abberline called, "Jacob!" Nothing. "Evie!"

Not Jacob or Evie but someone else— _Templar,_  his memory supplied—snuck up behind Abberline and wrapped his arm around his throat. Abberline stumbled, tried slamming the Templar backward into a tree. It didn't throw him. Abberline's hands scrabbled at the Templar's forearm, his vision blurring. So he dug his fingers into the arm choking him and tried the opposite approach, dipping low and flipping his attacker over his back. With the Templar's wrist still trapped in Abberline's grip, he delivered a hard stomp to the head. The Templar went limp and Abberline wandered farther into the trees, heart pounding.

He came upon a stone structure that looked like the entry to a vault. The grass around it was scorched and covered in bits of stone and dust—apparently this is where the explosions had happened. Abberline dashed inside, down the steep stairs, which eventually dulled into worn, lumpy stone. He slid down, down, deep beneath the palace grounds until the floor evened out at the landing of a strange room, half thick pillars, half crumbling stone. He could hear an ethereal buzz somewhere ahead, pierced by the distant sounds of a brawl.

Abberline hurried forward and came to a tall wall, a column set into it, water dripping down the stone. He groaned and started clambering up the loose bricks, feet slipping on the water as he dragged himself up. And although the last room had been strange, nothing could prepare Abberline for what he had climbed into: the upper level of an underground amphitheater.

At the other end of the vast room, the Frye twins clashed with Starrick. He had Jacob by the throat and Evie was tearing at him, fist raised. Starrick released Jacob, blasting him backward with such force that Jacob flew across the amphitheater, landing in a heap a level below Abberline.

Abberline looked frantically for a way down—some stairs, a collapsed section of floor. Seeing nothing, he sat at the edge of floor and dropped, landing hard, his knees giving out. By then, Jacob was already on his feet and charging back toward Starrick and Evie.

Sheets of golden light erupted across the stadium, rippling like water and sparking like fire. Jacob deftly dodged them—under, over, under—almost like he knew their pattern already. Abberline ducked behind a column, but it was no use. The light, whatever it was, hit Abberline and he gasped—hot, knifesharp pain sizzling through him before he got tossed backward. The room went black.

—

Abberline woke to the indelible sting of embarrassment, a pain in his head, and a soft touch on his face—a thumbpad moving back and forth along his cheek.

He opened his eyes, slow, and the room spun around him. Jacob Frye leaned into view, upside down, and said, "Morning, Freddy."

Abberline closed his eyes, the spinning room too much to take, not to mention the shame associated with trying to come to the rescue with no weapons. "Hello."

Jacob continued rubbing his cheek. He shifted a little, legs flexing under Abberline's head. Jacob let silence pass between them for a minute before asking, "Do you know where you are?"

Abberline knit his eyebrows. "In theory."

"Do you remember how you got here?"

Abberline sighed. "Through a pond and some trees, then down a long flight of very poorly-constructed stairs."

"Can you sit up?"

Abberline opened his eyes again, scowling up at Jacob. "So many _questions_ ," he complained.

"Oh, I am sorry for trying to sort out whether you injured your brain," Jacob grumbled, helping Abberline sit up slowly. "But lucky for you, it seems the Abberline family's robust constitution has triumphed again."

Abberline rested his back against the wall, his side brushing Jacob's. "Where is everybody?" he asked. "How aren't there any guards down here?"

"Taking their time, I suppose. Not everyone is too keen on going tumbling down a steep slope into a mysterious underground vault." Jacob nudged Abberline as if to say 'unlike you.' "Evie and Henry wanted to stay until you woke up, but I had them leave for the train. And Starrick—" Jacob pointed at the far end of the room, "—is lying dead behind that big glowy box."

Crawford Starrick, dead. That meant a serious and destabilizing blow to local and regional economy…but after seeing the man in action, Abberline couldn't pretend to be sorry.

"What was all that—light?" Abberline asked. "Was it coming from that bloody boa constrictor Starrick was wearing?" he added, motioning at his own chest.

Jacob huffed a little laugh. "It's complicated."

Abberline turned his head, a bit too fast given how it made the world tilt, and poked Jacob hard in the arm. "You said—"

"All right! All right. Christ," Jacob grumbled, rubbing the place Abberline had jabbed him. "Starrick was wearing a Shroud of Eden, a sort of—magical cloak created by an ancient civilization. It has the power to heal fatal wounds and, when exploited, could inflict them. Hence the lights. Starrick was going to use it to eliminate the heads of church and state."

Jacob glanced over at him. Abberline was silent, ruminating, then concluded: "Bollocks."

"Oh _come on,_ Freddy."

"You're making that up."

Jacob made a sweeping motion at the amphitheater, saying, "You saw it with your own eyes! I don't know what better explanation I could provide for 'magic golden light' than 'magic!'"

Magic. Wonderful. And not the harmless kind that apparently made Robert Topping’s purse disappear whenever he got arrested. It was the kind that got locked up in special royal tombs and inspired centuries-old secret societies. It was the kind that could wipe out elected officials and install despots in their stead.

Abberline laid his head on Jacob's shoulder, leather cool on his cheek. "Did you and Evie take it?" Abberline inquired. "The Shroud."

"No. We put it back in the box." He sighed, the shoulder Abberline rested his head on rising and falling with it. "It's too dangerous."

Abberline felt thankful for that, at least. "Why not destroy it?"

Abberline surmised the answer would be 'it's indestructible,' but Jacob's long pause indicated otherwise. Eventually he said, "Insurance, I suppose. We might need it. Could give Britain the upper hand in a—great war or somesuch."

Abberline didn't want to think about that—not today, anyway. He twined his fingers with Jacob's, rested their arms on their bent knees. Jacob drew their joined hands up and kissed Abberline's knuckles. He understood what it meant, having become proficient in the rare language of Jacob Frye's silence. It meant, _I'm glad you're all right._

Abberline could just make out the far-off scuffle of guards making their way into the vault. He supposed that if Jacob really was telling the truth about the Shroud, about Starrick and his plans—they didn't need to worry about making a grand escape. That was a nice change.

Abberline watched the soft, shifting glow of the Shroud’s tomb-like casing. He'd thought knowing more about the Assassins' operations would simplify things—how foolish he was. At least going forward Abberline wouldn’t just have to assume that Jacob, Evie, and Henry were doing the right thing, even when they did it bloodily. Now he knew it.

" _Well_ ," Abberline began exaggeratedly, lifting his head from Jacob's shoulder.

Jacob looked over at him, reading his tone. "Do _not_ make one of your terrible jokes."

"I can see now why you kept your order—"

"Freddy," Jacob warned, narrowing his eyes.

"— _Shrouded_ in secrecy," Abberline finished, smug. Jacob shook his head in disbelief. Abberline elbowed him, prompting, "Eh?"

A reluctant smile broke over Jacob's face and he gave Abberline a firm shove, then another one, wrestling him to the floor while Abberline protested, "Ow! Careful, I'm injured!"

Jacob leaned over him, propped up on one arm. He sighed in defeat and said, "I can't believe I love you."

Abberline smiled—dizzy, maybe from the head trauma, maybe not. He dragged Jacob down for a kiss, smiling all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so SO much for all your kudos and sweet comments! I have more Fryeddy planned and in progress, so if you want to read more, subscribe on AO3 or follow me on Tumblr. http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/
> 
> <3


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